


The Land of Lost Content

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-19
Updated: 2006-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:36:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1631933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet Cornish break takes a shocking turn and Will discovers he isn't the only one who remembers how things used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Land of Lost Content

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Jayest

 

 

_Into my heart an air that kills  
From yon far country blows:  
What are those blue remembered hills,  
What spires, what farms are those?_

_That is the land of lost content,  
I see it shining plain,  
The happy highways where I went  
And cannot come again._

 

****

  
Invitation

Exhibition of the work of  
Barnabas Drew

at the Redpath Gallery,  
Pentewen

5.00pm, 21st August

The card was thick and expensive with elegant, plain silver letters embossed onto its smooth surface. On the back, in a neat handwriting, was a message: _Looking forward to seeing you again, Will. I remember so much of our old adventures -- we'll have fun when we meet up._

Will flicked at its edge absently with his thumbnail as he stared blankly out the car window where the green patchwork hills of North Dartmoor whipped past. The road was busy with cars and caravans, holidaymakers keen to get to and from Cornwall as quickly as possible.

'Your friend's done well.' Stephen's rumbling baritone broke in on his thoughts.

The intrusion was a welcome one. A posting in Bermuda these past two years, and Will saw all too little of his eldest brother nowadays.

'An exhibition at sixteen? Sounds like a star of the future. Maybe you should have broken open that piggy bank, mate.'

'Ha, ha,' Will deadpanned. 'The wages from a Saturday job would hardly be enough to buy a postcard at an exhibition like that. Gallery space in Cornwall doesn't come cheap.'

'How did he manage it, anyway?'

Will shrugged. 'He's a good artist.'

At Stephen's sceptical look, he continued, 'His mum's good, too. Maybe she helped out a bit.'

'Well, I'll have time for a quick look round when I drop you off, then it's back to the high seas for me.'

The anticipation sounded clear in Stephen's tone. Will said, 'You really miss it, don't you? The sea, I mean.'

Stephen sighed. One hand came off the steering wheel to ruffle what remained of his hair, cut short by the enthusiastic (too enthusiastic, according to Barbara and Mary) barber in the village the day before.

'It's like -- I dunno. The wind. And the open air, and the sea. And the friendships and the loyalty. The whole set-up. It's exciting. I feel alive, in my element, you know? It's where I belong.'

A small, bright dart of envy stung Will, reminding him keenly of his own situation, and he sighed. 'Yeah. I wish I could feel that.'

'Hey, you're just a young thing. You've got lots of time for that stuff. Besides, you'll be with your friends for a few days, won't you?'

Will forced a smile but said nothing.

A short pause, then -- 'Will, Mum's worried about you, you know. So's Dad,' Stephen said. He cleared his throat, then added,' And so am I.'

When no explanation was offered, Stephen pressed on. 'You've been like this for months, Mum said.'

There was no point in asking, _Like what_? He knew exactly what was troubling his family.

'She was really pleased when you decided to spend the week with Bran and the Drews. You're only seventeen, you know. You act as if you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders.' Another pause. 'You're not in trouble at school, are you?'

'No.'

'Girlfriend problems?'

'I'm all right, Steve.'

'I mean, we don't want you to be anything you're not. It's just... you've always been an old head on young shoulders. You never seem content. I just want to see you relax and enjoy yourself a bit, like a normal teenager.'

Will smiled again. 'I'll try.'

Suddenly, from the roadside verge, a shape, grey and larger than a dog, darted out. It seemed to run straight at the car, so close it was surely under the wheels. Will braced himself for the impact as Stephen swerved into the middle of the road, almost into the path of an oncoming lorry. Will scarcely heard the wail of the lorry's irate horn fading behind them. Instead, he was shaken by a wave of malevolence that crashed over him as the animal ran at them.

'Bloody hell!' Stephen shouted; then, after a moment, 'Did I scare you? Sorry about that.' He shook his head. 'I don't know what that was. Some kind of dog, I think.'

Will's heart was beating wildly. He swallowed and willed himself to calm down. 'I think it was a wolf.'

'You don't get them in the wild any more. I didn't even see it coming.'

Will looked out the back window. No-one else had swerved or braked. The heavy traffic behind them was running freely. 'I think it's disappeared.'

'Well, welcome to Cornwall, mate,' said Stephen nodding towards the roadside sign that announced they were entering the county. 'Though we could do without many more welcomes like that.

'Devonport's down the road to the left just up here. You need to come down with me one day when I've got more time and I'll show you round the base. Or,' he said with a sudden grin, 'if you want to be a tourist, we could turn right and go to Tintagel to visit King Arthur.'

Will's stomach gave a jolt. 'That would be brilliant,' he said with sincerity.

Stephen looked at him again. 'But you're going to this exhibition, aren't you?' he said.

'Yeah,' Will said. 'I think I should.'

* * * * *

Just as Stephen had promised that morning, they arrived in Pentewen at exactly half past five. Naval precision and timings winning out again, Will thought with a wry smile as he watched Stephen unload his rucksack from the boot.

He left the bag in the gallery's cloakroom. Stephen was heading back to Devonport after a quick stop and Will didn't want his worldly goods for next few days to make the trip with his brother. Instead, the plan was that he and Bran would stay for a break with the Drews at the house their parents had taken for the week of the exhibition.

Seeing his friends again would be a mixed pleasure and Will had debated with himself whether or not to come. The only people left with whom he had fought the Dark five years ago and none of them could remember it. And Will could neither speak of it with them nor remind them.

His responsibilities as Watchman had seemed both thrilling and enormous when Merriman had first charged him with the task. Now, five years on, they simply seemed pointless. With only petty agents of the Dark still in the world, his master was satisfied that their enemies were defeated once and for all time and his occasional visits, the only relief to Will's aching loneliness, had become increasingly rare. The isolation was starting to tell on Will and, it seemed, on his family.

But now, unexpectedly, he was wary. The incident on the road had been no accident. The wolf was the Dark's creature, its attack an attempt to crash their car. Will wondered what waited for him here in Cornwall.

The Redpath Gallery was a small, whitewashed building next to the sea. It looked as though it had once been two cottages that were now knocked together. The mellow notes of modern jazz drifted out on the warm air through its open windows and into the narrow street outside. There was nothing Will could sense about the place or the people in it -- neither good nor bad, no sense of the Dark nor of a threat: simply a blank. Still on guard, he allowed himself to relax slightly. He picked up a catalogue, boggled at the prices, fetched himself a glass of orange juice and set out to look for his friends.

Once inside he lost sight of Stephen almost instantly in the noisy crush of locals and tourists, gallery owners and dealers down from London, all of them milling around the small, whitewashed rooms in an array of holiday colours and vibrant outfits that would have looked unusual at any exhibition other than a Cornish seaside one.

Will scanned for a familiar face but the crowd made it difficult to see anyone more than a few feet away. He decided to make his way around the perimeter of the room where the crush of people thinned out enough to let him see the paintings.

What he saw there amazed him. The quality of the work on the walls was staggering.

Barney's paintings were bold and dynamic. Their imagery was striking, often disturbing but always showing inventive flair and an original imagination. The subjects were varied: landscapes and still-lifes, figuratives and portraits, all of them with arresting, animated colours and dynamic movement. Many of them seemed almost to pulsate with their own inner energy. No wonder the dealers in the room seemed excited. Barney was that rarest of things, a genuine undiscovered talent.

According to the catalogue, he had completed the whole collection in just eighteen months. He had been working constantly as there were well over twenty items here -- almost all of them already sporting red stickers to show they had been sold.

But moving from painting to painting, Will felt a growing sense of unease. He didn't need the small knowledge of art that Max had forced on him over the years to appreciate the prodigious talent on display, so completely unlike any previous work of Barney's that he had seen. These paintings did not allow for any reflection. They pulled a response from the viewer, whether it was given freely it or not. Their undeniable power was overwhelming, arrogant, even cruel. Will profoundly disliked them all.

The gallery was noisy and people were still arriving so he sought respite in the little nook of a window ledge cut deep into the thick stone walls. The window overlooked the sea frothing over the rocks a few feet below. Glad of the peace, he sat down. The exhibition had disturbed him. Will could not reconcile the boy he knew with the painter of these pictures and again a sense of wariness and foreboding crept over him. It was then, with no other warning, that he heard the singing.

It seemed to come on the wash of the waves, from the sea itself. It roared not in his ears, but in his head, inside his being. It was not a nice sound. Deep and resonant, it chilled him to the marrow. The sea foamed below, the waves crested in a curl that broke over the stone in infinitesimal bubbles, to reform and break once more.

Hours and months passed. It seemed to Will that he grew from the stone of the wall; he was elemental as the waves beneath him as the singing continued. And then, abruptly, it stopped. He found himself with his nose pressed against the glass, his breath fogging the window as he gazed.

Will was furious with himself. The wolf had been warning enough, yet he had still been caught off guard by a powerful enchantment. He jumped down.

There was silence in the gallery, the relaxed music stopped. Its throng of people stood like waxwork tableaux, caught out of time, frozen in mid-motion by a spell that would last as long as its caster wished. Even the warm West Country light seemed suspended, dust motes caught in its shafts of sunlight like flaws in amber. Only one other person in the room moved and he stood before him. It was Barney.

His friend smiled at him, looking exactly as he always did. Will felt sickened. 'Hi, Will,' said Barney. 'I've been waiting for you.'

'Barney? What's happened here?' He nodded at the unnaturally quiet room and its mannequin-like people.

'You know. You can do it too, can't you?'

The hair stood up on the back of Will's neck. 'Did you do that?'

'My friend did it. '

'Your friend?'

'He'll be here soon. You'll meet him.' Barney smiled again. 'But first I want to show you something.' He caught Will's elbow and began weaving him through the silent crowd, steering a path towards the far wall.

Set deep into the wall was a tiny wooden door, unpainted and pale-coloured, that Will did not remember seeing before. It had been built for smaller statures than were common nowadays, for even he would barely pass through without ducking his head. Barney leaned around him and pushed down on the small iron handle. The door swung away from them.

'This isn't for everyone else,' Barney said. He was still smiling. 'It's just for us. It's a secret.'

Nothing from beyond the door warned Will of any danger. There was simply the same blank, neutral feeling he had sensed in the rest of the gallery, telling him nothing was amiss. With senses as keen as an animal's and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach he walked forward, muttering a spell of protection as he crossed over the threshold.

The small room beyond the door was white, plain, almost circular and empty of people. The air was cool but it was not restful as it should have been: instead, its energy was alive. A low, bass-sounding thrum, like the vibration of an electrical current, charged the atmosphere. It seemed to move up from the floor, up through Will's feet and into his body. It was the low, throbbing beat of great magical power and it was coming, he realised, from the paintings that hung on the walls.

There were six of them and they were massive. Over seven feet they towered, larger than life, dominating their tiny space. Their impact would have been striking to any viewer. But to Will, they were devastating. His brain struggled to take in what he was seeing, its undeniable significance. He drank in the details of each in turn.

An older but still vigorous man, standing cloaked on a hillside, some unseen back-light throwing into sharp relief his hawk-nosed profile and spring of white hair.

A pale boy, slim and straight as a young beech, holding aloft a crystal sword in salute to an unseen lord.

A young girl, seated on a cliff-top, gazing not out to sea but inland, watching over the making in the distance of a towering green figure fashioned of hazel and rowan and hawthorn.

An older boy, his air of self-importance obvious even in the picture with a small, dull-yellow chalice in two outstretched hands, held like an offering.

It had been years since Will had known dread but it pounced on him now, in this unlikeliest of places. His mind was whirling.

And as though in mockery, his own image stared back at him from the next wall. Barney had painted him lying in long grass, observing the viewer impassively, one arm shading his eyes from the sun. On the white of his raised forearm blazed clearly the brand burned wrinkled into his skin years ago -- a circle quartered by a cross. He turned towards the final painting, knowing who its subject would be.

Barney stood in smiling self-portrait, holding within the painting another painting unlike any Will had seen before. It was an abstract, bright and colourful, with the energy of the other paintings, yet magnified. It was a painted spell, a spell of the Dark -- that was obvious. But what the spell was, Will did not know.

The boy ought not to have remembered any of the events he had depicted. Merriman had left them in the deepest, most remote corners of his mind, never to be recalled except in dreams. And he should never have been able to paint the Things of Power -- not the Grail, not Eirias, and never, ever the Dark spell. Something had deliberately restored the link in his mind to the memories Merriman had wiped out.

Barney's six paintings were commanding as artworks. But together, depicting what they did and charged as they were with magical significance, they were not just compelling; they were potentially dangerous. Somehow, in creating these images, Barney had opened up a channel, a space for another spell to flow through them -- a spell of great power, that much was obvious. But why? How had Barney remembered? And who had channelled that magical potency into them?

The power of the paintings beat like a tattoo through the walls and the floor, a distant, ominous threat. The threat was a message of war, too, for Will and for the Light. _We have not gone away_ , it said. _We are coming_.

Will's chest tightened as though an invisible hand were squeezing his ribcage. Barney was watching from the doorway like a child eager for approval. 'Do you like them, Will?'

Will forced out his reply past a too-tight throat. 'Why did you paint these scenes, Barney? Why these?'

Barney's face clouded. 'You know why. That time was the best that's ever happened to me. All of us, together. Nothing else has ever come close. And Gummery made it stop. But it doesn't have to stop.'

Will stared, aghast. 'Who told you that? Those days are over.'

'Mr Skoll says we can bring them back. And I believe him. He helped me with my paintings at first, taught me how to do them. Then I got better, till I was able to do these ones just by myself.' Barney looked up at the nearest painting, of Merriman, with obvious satisfaction. 'They're the best things I've ever done. And they brought you back, didn't they?' he added, slyly.

'Who's Mr Skoll?'

'He's my friend. I told you, it's ok.' Barney smiled, sunny again. 'Are you glad I can remember now? You thought we'd all forgotten, didn't you? But I remember.'

'What did Skoll promise you?'

'He didn't promise me anything. I knew I would be a great painter. I saw things in the Grail at Trewissick. That time when I was under the spell, in the caravan. I never told anyone. You and Gummery never knew that, did you? I was told I'd be brilliant. That I should watch for Mr Skoll coming, that he would help me.'

'Barney, you can't trust that. Skoll probably planted false memories in your head.'

Barney turned on him. 'False memories are better than no memories at all. But you and Gummery wouldn't know that either, would you?'

There was nothing Will could say in answer. It was then, in the silence, he sensed that the thrum of the heart-stopping bass was deepening and swelling in intensity. The room seemed smaller, the walls creeping closer. And the paintings now appeared to loom above him with a malevolence he hadn't felt when he came in. Greyness began closing in at the edges of his vision. He had to get out of the room. Stumbling, he pushed past Barney, almost falling through the doorway back into the main gallery.

'Old One, Old One, Last of the Old Ones.' The voice, in the accent peculiar to the Dark, came from across the room.

A fair-haired man was weaving his way through the immobile crowds. He was not as pale as Bran, with his lack of colour, but both his skin and hair were of a pallor that was unusual. A smirk twisted his features and when he reached Will he leaned, relaxed, against the gallery wall.

'You seem distressed. A glass of wine, perhaps, to steady your nerves.'

A waitress, petrified in space and time, had been passing close to where they stood, carrying a tray of wine and cava. The man of the Dark caught up two of the long-stemmed glasses.

Only Will and the man, facing each other, moved or breathed in the crowded room. 'A toast, Old One. To the success of Barnabas Drew's exhibition.' He held out one of the glasses.

Will's hands stayed rigid by his sides, his fists clenched. The man shrugged then replaced the second glass on the tray.

'Our young friend has progressed beyond imagining this year. His willingness to learn does him great credit.' He sipped his wine, then continued, 'But perhaps you would prefer to hear for yourself.' He raised his voice slightly. 'Barnabas.'

A slight movement behind him told Will that Barney was there. He said nothing, closing off his thoughts, aware that they would be scrutinised.

Mr Skoll's gaze slid past Will. 'Your friend, I think, disapproves of your masterpieces. He believes you should not be painting such things.'

'Will took away my memories. He still thinks he's the only one who should be allowed to remember. I don't think that's fair,' Barney said.

Barney looked so exactly as he always did that the human part of Will's mind wanted to rebel in disbelief. The boy couldn't have any idea what was happening -- of what he was doing.

 _Of course he does. Just look around you_ , came the answer of the Old One in his own mind. He could even see Jane from where he stood, caught out of time in mid-conversation with her and Barney's mother. Will remembered once before watching the Dark seduce away a friend of the Light. The consequences then had been terrible for all of them. With a sickening jolt, he knew that Barney didn't care to recognise in his new friend the forces they had fought in Cornwall and in Wales years ago. And by the time he did, it would be too late. By then he would be unable or unwilling to escape.

Furious, he turned on the blond man. 'The Dark has no right to take this boy. You lost that battle years ago. You were banished.'

The man laughed softly. 'I have taken no-one, Old One. Barnabas Drew is my friend by choice. _By his choice._ And while the Dark may have lost one battle' -- his voice hardened -- 'the only ones who seem to have retired from the field, as it were, are your masters.' He smiled again. 'Quite gone. All of them. All save you.'

He took a step closer to Will, smiling unpleasantly. 'The masters of the Dark did not commit all our troops to the fight. We lost some of our best people, yes, but not all. We bided our time, regrouped. Some of us have power still. And now, with the help of our young friend here, we are ready.'

'Barnabas Drew cannot help you. He was one of the Six. You cannot touch him.'

'Yes, he was one of your Six.' Skoll spat out the word. 'If he were not, he could not have painted those pictures. So useful to us, now. With the objects themselves removed from use, we have their closest match -- their images, from one knows them. Who has held the Grail, who beheld Eirias, who has watched the Greenwitch.' He paused. 'We have remnants of the Things of Power, and the pictures have that power in themselves. You know it. You _felt_ it.

'While you? All your gifts are worthless now. You have nothing. _Nothing_. Not even a friend.' He smiled deliberately, his gaze sweeping over Barney. 'What can you do now, Will Stanton, hmm?'

Skoll watched him, smirking, as though he could sense Will's turmoil as he sought desperately for an answer.

 _Merriman!_ Will called silently in his mind. But he knew, even as he summoned his absent master, that it was futile. There would be no response. Merriman was too far away and all of them too complacent. The Old Ones had miscalculated badly. The Dark had not been vanquished at all. It would endure as long as men and women valued greed and domination and extreme power over their fellows. The Light's victory had been a temporary one only, and by the time its absent forces realised there was still a threat and the threat was real, it would be late.

'Why are you telling me this now?'

Skoll's lip curled. 'So you may know, when we regain our power, how it came about. _Watchman_. So you may reflect on your mistakes, and those of your careless masters.' He stepped closer, his pale eyes boring into Will's. 'So you may know of your own failure, in the end. You will have a long time to ponder it.' Then, with no further warning, Skoll vanished.

Will found himself staring at the space where Skoll had stood, in a room once again full of movement and the chatter of unsuspecting people.

He pushed the door handle but it was fastened by a protection stronger than any ordinary lock. Will muttered the words of spells of opening and of passage; but they did not work. The door stayed shut fast, both it and room protected against the Light. Will had hoped it would be otherwise but he was not surprised.

And now the atmosphere was changing subtly. A thin, discordant music replaced the warmer notes of the jazz and a colder, greyer light crept in around the edges of the room, dimming the warm glow of afternoon sunlight. It looked like the herald of a storm. Voices dropped lower; people shuffled uneasily, tense somehow and more on edge. And although Will guessed that only he could hear it, the powerful throb from the next room was growing steadily louder, more menacing, making his skin crawl. The paintings were the cause. They were the key to the Dark's strength and their power was growing.

A hand patted his back. 'Relax, Will. It'll all be fine, you'll see.' Barney gave him a small smile then disappeared into the crowd.

 _Barney, what have you done?_ Will would have said; but in the end it did not matter. He did not know, now that he had to, how to bring to his aid the too-distant powers of the Light. They had been eager -- too eager -- to leave. And when the Light had given up the fight, the Dark had not. They had made the wrong choices and now everything that had seemed so settled was suddenly uncertain. He glared at the small wooden door. A hand touched his shoulder again and he whirled round, furious. But this time it was not Barney who stood before him; it was Bran.

'Whoa.' Bran threw his hands up. 'You looking for a fight?' His eyes were bright over the top of his dark glasses, his smile was quick and brilliant and to Will it seemed as though the sun returned just a little. 'It's good to see you, _bachgen_.'

Behind Bran, Will could see the crowd start to thin out as the gallery began to empty. He willed them to move faster and wondered fleetingly if Stephen had left. Inside the room the air was growing steadily more oppressive, like the build-up to a giant electrical storm. Whatever Skoll and the Dark planned to do with the paintings, he knew that he had to get everyone away before it happened.

Bran dodged into his gaze again. 'Hey, what's up?'

'Bran. You've got to get out of here.'

'But I've only just arrived.' Then Bran's head went up, like a dog scenting a change in the weather. He turned around to see people shuffling out of the room. 'What's going on?'

'Could you get everyone out? Including you?'

'What is it? An electrical fault or something?'

'Just do it. Please.'

Will's head was ringing; he could feel the blood slowing in his veins. The power of the paintings was gathering, growing. He could wait no longer. He must destroy them now while he still could. Stretching out his hand, he spread his fingers to point at the door and said the words of a spell of destruction to blast the room and its contents out beyond time.

A low, bass boom like the near-silent echo of a distant explosion shook the floor. Then there was silence, only the discordant music playing on. The spell had not worked. The door and, he sensed, the room beyond both stood intact.

A more powerful spell still might -- just might -- destroy it. But he would have to break inside the door's protection and get into the room for it to be effective. He stretched out his fingers, intending to destroy the door, touching it. But this time a surge of power, strong as a huge electric shock, tore along his arm and through his body, hurling him backwards onto the floor. For a moment he lay, stunned.

The Dark's remaining strength was regrouping in that room through the images of the Things of Power, things that the Light had won in battle and had assumed -- wrongly -- to be spent. Here and now, the battle was beginning again. And Will was left to face the Dark utterly alone, without a weapon, without an ally, and with one of his friends, one of the Six, turned to the other side.

His heart drummed a time with the bass pounding up through the floor. He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts. He must meet the attack now, before it became too big for him. Shutting out the possibility that it was already too late, he scrambled to his feet. His legs were shaky and he staggered. A hand caught him around the upper arm.

'Right, they've all gone,' Bran said.

Will turned on him. 'Why are you still here?' he snapped.

'I was invited, same as you.'

'I can't look after you here.'

'I can look after myself. What's happening?'

Will sighed, resigned. 'I've got to get this door open.'

Bran did not ask why; he simply tried the handle. When the door didn't open he put his shoulder to it to push, firmly at first, then more violently. The door remained determinedly shut.

Bran flashed him a grin. 'Always works like magic on the telly, that.'

But Will didn't hear him. The tendrils of a new possibility were beginning to creep in at the edges of his mind. Things that had seemed set in stone until today were suddenly less solid. The Dark didn't have Things of Power but it was using them anyway. What was to say the Light could not play by the same rules?

Chills shivered up his back. An echo of another struggle in another place drifted into his mind. _Things of Power... Use the Things of Power_. He didn't have the Signs any more. But he still had Bran -- whose own power was once so great that it outranked even the greatest of Dark wizards. The Dark had invoked the Pendragon, had used his image for its own ends in its painting. Bran had not sought out that power. But could he take it up again?

Will fought off a sudden wave of nausea as a roaring began in his ears and blackness threatened his vision. He made up his mind. He must do what needed to be done and they would all face the consequences later.

'Tell the door to open,' he said to Bran.

Bran snorted. 'What?'

'Tell it to open. Command it.'

Bran raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing. He turned towards the door. 'Open, door,' he said as though play-acting to humour Will.

'Not like that. Like you mean it. Put power into it.'

This time, Bran planted his feet firmly on the floor, his shoulders squared and his hands balled into fists by his sides. 'Open!' he shouted. And silently, the door swung inwards.

Bran turned towards him. Will held his breath. The Welsh boy's face was pale, his eyes quite unreadable behind his tinted glasses. Will could not bring himself to listen to his friend's thoughts. Instead, he moved forward, gathering himself for whatever awaited him in the other room. But he had barely taken a pace before Bran was there, blocking his way. 'Me first, I think,' he said.

Judgement told Will to insist but he let Bran have his way, as always. But -- 'Be careful. This could be dangerous.'

Bran walked into the room with an apprehensive Will close on his heels, wondering what was going on in his friend's mind. His nerves were on edge and his throat tight with anticipation. Then he had to put concern aside.

The low thrumming was much more powerful once they entered the room. It vibrated up through the floor, came in waves from the walls, grappled like hooks into Will's body, setting his teeth on edge. It was inharmonious, it was wrong and the sensation was repugnant.

Bran stopped directly inside the door and Will stepped around him to stand at his side.

Skoll stood in the centre of the floor, his arms raised and his head thrown back. Energy and power was pouring out of the six paintings on the walls, flowing in six rivers of blue-white light, vibrating like a living thing across the floor to swirl around the feet of the man of the Dark who stood, continually chanting, the hub at the centre of a great wheel of energy. He seemed to grow in stature as each second passed. He gave no sign of being aware of their presence. He was talking, constantly -- casting a spell. It made the flesh creep along Will's bones. It was a spell of summoning. The man was summoning to himself, to the room, through the enchantment of the paintings, all the powers of the Dark that remained in the land. They were gathering -- they were coming. _Here._

But before Will could speak or even move, another voice rang out in the room. It was a voice he had last heard five years ago and one that he had never thought to hear again. It was Bran's voice somehow, suddenly, in full awareness of his own stature, of his heritage and of his power.

'Stop!' he commanded.

Skoll ignored him. Will was not sure if he had even heard.

But instantly the power in the room changed. The six rivers of cold light on the floor moved neither forward nor back but halted, suspended, shimmering. The low bass of electrical current no longer increased in volume or intensity, but stayed steady, humming, awaiting a command.

Now Skoll turned on them. 'You! You have no rights to that power, Bran Davies! You renounced it years ago!'

'The times have changed. Circumstances are changed. The Dark still recognises my power--' Bran's eyes slid to his own painting on the wall '-- therefore it has no right to challenge me. A new game, with new rules. It is your choice, your decision. And now, it is mine also.'

There was no time to wonder at what Bran had said. Skoll leapt at them, growling. Will instantly threw a spell of protection around them both. It would not last long but it would buy precious seconds.

The man bounced off as though he'd run full speed into a wall. But he was on his feet almost instantly, fury and malevolence blazing in his eyes. He blasted Will's protection aside.

But Will was quicker still. Even as he'd cast his spell, he rushed, leaping over one of the glistening rivers, towards the nearest wall where his own image hung. With the Dark spell halted, the protection on the paintings too had faltered. Grabbing either side of the canvas, Will tried to haul it off the wall.

'No!' Skoll cried, and a blow with the force of a hammer struck the back of Will's neck, throwing him aside like a doll. He landed head and shoulders first, hard on the floor. His vision blacked out, his ears rang and echoed as he fought hard for consciousness.

Then, through the haze obscuring his eyes, he saw Skoll turn around. And saw what Skoll saw.

The few seconds of Will's fight were enough to win Bran some time. He'd pulled down Barney's portrait and was standing, triumphant, as Skoll turned around. His gaze boring into Skoll, Bran plunged his fist through the canvas, tearing into the painted spell at its centre.

The painting suddenly glowed brilliant white, too bright to watch, dazzling light without heat. As Bran let it fall, it flared into a towering column of yellow flame. Then there was a roaring like a great wind in the gallery, the room plunged into darkness and Will knew nothing more.

* * * * *

Something was slapping at his face. It was irritating. 'Will... come on, Will. Wake up.'

He didn't want to wake up. His head and body ached and he just wanted to go to sleep again on this... this hard flagstone floor. Bran. _The paintings_.

His eyes flew open and he bolted upright, only to meet an overwhelming wave of nausea. He leaned forward, retching.

'Easy.' Bran's hands were firm on his shoulders. He forced his eyes open again, squinting against the light.

There was no pulse of power vibrating through the walls and no rivers of light on the floor. The room was normal. Skoll was nowhere to be seen. Puzzled, he turned to Bran.

'It's gone. He's gone.'

'I've got to get him...'

'He's _gone_ , Will,' Bran said again.

'Where... how?'

Bran shook his head. 'The painting,' he said, slowly. 'It went on fire -- burned away to nothing. He was screaming at me the whole time. Then, just before the fire went out, he vanished. Disappeared. Those weird lights, that noise... it all stopped.'

Relief overwhelmed Will. But hard on its heels came a realisation -- about Bran and what he must now know about himself once more. He looked at his friend. No words, of apology or of explanation, came to him. There was no guilt at keeping from Bran the knowledge of his heritage. Yet he did not know if Bran might blame him or resent being used against the Dark, letting him remember in such a way. Will's throat was too tight for speech and his heart seemed to be trying to beat its way out of his throat.

Bran was watching him squarely, his face sombre. 'You and your secrets, Will Stanton.' Then, with a grin, he said, 'You might have bloody reminded me!'

A smile spread across Will's face, so broad it made his muscles ache. He needed no words now. There was only relief at a companionship returned and a profound joy that was simply too great to express.

'And if I ever forget again --' Bran was saying.

'-- I'll remember to tell you,' Will said, trying without success to keep his voice steady.

He struggled to his feet. Bran helped him up. 'What now, _dewin_?'

'I've got to destroy the rest of these paintings.'

Bran stepped back. 'Be my guest,' he said.

Pointing to each of the remaining paintings in turn, Will said the words of power, a spell of annihilation. One by one, the same cold white light that had burned away the first painting blazed around each canvas; then a burst of the same consuming yellow fire; and then they were gone. Satisfied, they watched the five paintings burn until there was nothing was left to show they had ever existed.

'You bastards,' said a low voice behind them.

Barney stood in the doorway. His face was stark and white save for two livid spots of colour over his cheekbones and his voice shook when he spoke. 'You utter bastards. How could you?'

'Get a grip on yourself, man,' said Bran, a hard edge to his tone.

Barney walked into the room, right up to Bran until the two were standing face-to-face, mere inches apart. Bran stood, unflinching, unmoving, head erect and an arrogant tilt to his jaw. He might have been carved from stone. A muscle in Barney's cheek twitched and his voice, when it came, was low and strangled. 'You. _You_. I idolised you.' By his sides, his fists clenched and unclenched.

For an awful moment, Will thought Barney would strike Bran. Then Barney stepped back and the moment was gone. He turned on Will next.

'I told you everything would be fine. I _told_ you. Mr Skoll helped me remember. But you couldn't just let me have that, could you? You're so _special_. Well, I can be special, too, just as special as you and Bran. Don't think this is the end, Will Stanton. Not for a minute.' With a final glare at them, Barney spun around and marched out.

The silence in the empty gallery seemed magnified after Barney's outburst. The sounds of excited children on the beach drifted in through the windows and seagulls cawed loudly somewhere nearby.

'Come on,' Bran said.

They filed out. Will let Bran go first, watching his friend as he walked through the empty gallery. Perhaps Bran would have more to say later but for now there was no reproach and no regret -- simply a stepping into his role again, taking up his rightful place as though he were a dreamer newly awakened from a long sleep. Which, Will supposed, in a manner of speaking he was. Not for the first time he thought that Bran was the most remarkable person he had ever met.

They collected their rucksacks from the deserted cloakroom and stepped outside, squinting against the suddenly bright sunlight. It seemed an age since Will had first arrived.

He heaved the rucksack up and onto his shoulders, adjusting the straps to make it more comfortable. Bran turned, something of an air of disturbed puzzlement about him. 'It is the strangest thing -- spooky, you might say. When I saw Barney, the first person I thought of was Blodwen Rowlands. About the choices she made. That was Barney's own choice, wasn't it? He was not possessed.'

'No, he wasn't possessed.' Will felt a genuine sorrow for the young boy Barney had been. Whatever the route to his friendship with Skoll, Barney had acted in full knowledge of what he was doing. They would try to reach him again, to bring him back to the Light. But that would be a battle for another time. For now, more pressing matters awaited.

He hoisted the rucksack up again and waited while Bran readied himself.

Bran said, 'What does it mean, now? That... I'm back, so to speak?'

'I don't know. But at least we know you've still got it where it counts.' Bran laughed. 'We'll find out the rest.'

'How?'

'I'll have to contact Merriman. I'm not sure how, but I've got a couple of ideas. I need to tell him what's happened, get advice. And since he's not coming to me, I'll have to go and look for him. I thought I might head north to Tintagel, take things from there.'

'Can I come?'

Will grinned. 'I'll think about it.' Bran grinned back, then looked at his feet. He kicked at a non-existent stone.

'I thought you were a goner, in there.'

Will looked at the bent head. 'No chance. Not when I had my best sidekick with me.'

'Hey! Mind who you're calling a sidekick!'

It was Will's turn to laugh aloud, part in relief, part in anticipation and part delight at having Bran fully returned to him. Then he became aware that Bran was staring at him, a fond expression on his face and he felt himself start to blush.

'Oi! Will!'

Will and Bran turned. Stephen was striding across the street towards them, the remains of an ice cream in his hand. He nodded in greeting to Bran then spotted the boys' rucksacks. 'You two off somewhere?'

'Yeah. We decided we'd head up to the north coast for a bit.'

'For the surfing?' Stephen grinned. 'Or are you going to visit King Arthur after all?'

'That's the plan,' Bran said, truthfully.

'Sorry I can't take you. But it's long past time I was heading back.'

'I thought you would have gone by now,' Will said.

'So did I. But it was such a nice day and the sea looked fantastic, so I just wandered along the front for a bit.' Stephen polished off the last of his ice cream. 'Kind of lost track of time, actually. I didn't see any of your friend's exhibition, in the end. Was it any good?'

'A bit overblown, if you ask me,' said Bran. 'You didn't miss anything.'

Will realised it might be quite some time before he saw his older brother again. He stepped forward and pulled Stephen's lanky frame into an awkward hug. 'Take care, Steve.'

Stephen paused in surprise then returned the hug full force, squeezing the breath from Will. Stephen whispered in his ear, 'See? I told you seeing your friends would do you good.' Will was suddenly released but not before his hair was ruffled. He grinned up at his brother.

'You too,' Stephen said more loudly. 'Oh, and if you've had a change of plans, remember to let Mum know?'

They watched as Stephen got into his car and drove off, his hand out the window waving as he disappeared from sight. Will sighed.

'Come on, _bachgen_ ,' Bran said. 'It's time we were off. We've got a long way to go.'

END

 

 

 


End file.
